Tomas opens his mouth, but Travnyk speaks first.
“He is correct,” the Urr’ki murmurs. “This poison spreads fast. Every hour matters.”
“But that thing could still be out there!” Tomas snaps. “And we do not even know what we are walking toward.”
“I do,” I say before I lose my nerve.
Three heads swing toward me. I take a breath, tasting the metal tang still clinging to the wind.
“We are walking toward the source. Toward where the contamination started.”
Rakkh’s body shifts closer to me—slightly, instinctively, like gravity realigning itself.
“You know something more?” he asks quietly.
“The plants are not just dying. They are reacting to something synthetic. Something they are absorbing. The carok was absorbing it too and dying from the inside out.”
Tomas blinks. “But… that does not make sense. Nothing on Tajss is synthetic.”
“Exactly,” I say.
Understanding dawns on Travnyk’s face first. His shoulders tighten. He frowns so deep his tusks tilt in to touch the sides of his broad nose.
“If it is something artificial… it must be buried to corrupt the land like this,” Travnyk says. “Partially, at least.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “And if we are already seeing this much damage… whatever is leaking must be huge.”
“We go forward,” Rakkh says, stepping even closer. His voice drops to a low, rumbling warning.
“Why? Why forward? Why not get help? Why not—” Tomas asks, throwing his hands up.
“Because she already carries the scent of the trail,” Rakkh growls. “If we delay, we lose it. And Tajss loses more.”
His words silence Tomas. Silence me. Because they are not just tactical. They are personal.
“And because the stalker still hunts,” Travnyk adds, tilting his head thoughtfully.
Yes. I feel it. In the sand. In the air, watching and waiting.
The four of us move. Rakkh does not take his eyes off the dunes. Not once. His wings twitch with every ripple of sand. He always stays within easy reach, ready. I should not like that this much. But I do. Gods help me, I do.
“Lia.” Rakkh’s voice is low, just for me. “Tell me what you smell.”
“What I—? Rakkh, I am not a Zmaj.”
“No,” he agrees. “You are something different. Your way of sensing the land is not ours. It is… sharp. Different.” His eyes flash, molten. “Show me where to tread.”
My throat tightens. Calista would faint if she heard a warrior say that. Jolie would laugh herself breathless.
“I am still learning,” I murmur.
“So am I,” he says.
Those three words… I feel in my chest.
We crest another dune, and the wind dies—cut clean. Ahead, the sand lies oddly smooth, as though something recently dragged itself through, and the breeze has not dared disturb it yet. Rakkh stops dead.
“What is that?” Tomas whispers.
